


Pieces

by Mithlomi



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, F/M, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:14:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1335073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithlomi/pseuds/Mithlomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Constance is not as strong as she thinks. She needs help putting the pieces back together...</p><p>A post-series character study based on 1.10 promos and my imagined ending of the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> This will be multi-chapter (a rareity for me) although it will flow more like a series of short drabbles than a plot-based fic. 
> 
> This is essentially my 'I love Constance so much' explosion of feels made into something slightly more coherent. I hope...
> 
> Everyone cross their fingers that I finish it before the actual series finale

He holds her like she is fragile. Perhaps she is. Perhaps she will fall apart if he lets go but she knows there is nothing that will tear him away from her now, and so she does not have to face the possibility that she is broken...

Her husband is. Jacques Bonacieux lies dead in a gutter. She watched, knowing there was nothing she could do, as if time itself had stopped, as the bullet tore through him, blood and shattered bone painting the wall behind him. Her poor wretch of a husband...

She was never angry; that would have been easier. She never hated him; he had done nothing to deserve it, not until she had pushed him. It would take a very great man to forgive their wife for confessing their love to another man, and Jacques Bonacieux was not a great man. He had made his own choice to betray her to the Cardinal, yes, but she had almost laid it out before him...

Yet still, she feels more pity than grief or anger at his death and that makes her guilt all the more consuming.

She cannot unravel the tangle that swamps her mind and her heart. Not now. Not yet. She must be strong. She needs to rest, to sleep, to sit and think. It's this thought that holds back the tears; she is in shock and she needs time to mend her broken body before she can work on her broken head- there is no need to cry just yet. The ache in her chest is all too real, as is the sting in her cheek, the grazes on her wrists, the pain in her leg. She will fall if he does not hold on to her, but not from some wretched soul as much as physical injury...

D'Artagnan says nothing and she is more than grateful. He makes no try to get her to admit her pain, nor any attempt to council her, comfort her, save for his physical presence against her. His arm clutches tight about her waist, the other holding her hand is if afraid of letting go. She will not deny him that, nor would she wish to; there is grief and anguish in his own gaze and she hopes that her being here, safe and warm and very much in love with him, is enough to douse his sorrow a little...

He knows the truth of her actions on that day, and it was Milady who told him of Bonacieux's bargain. She does not take the time to work out if it was meant as an act of friendship or an attempt to goad him into something reckless, and neither does she care. The day she understands the actions of Milady de Winter is the day Constance might take her side and she does not want that...

She does not think D'Artagnan would love her then.

And that is her anchor. The one truth she is sure of beyond any doubt. D'Artagnan loves her. The rest of her world is in chaos but he is warm and solid and strong beside her and that is all that matters right now. She knows he is ashamed of himself; that he doubted her, that he did not see through her actions but that was entirely the point. She had to convince him.

After today, she knew her husband had not been lying. A single word and D'Artagnan would be dead...

She still does not hate him. If only she could...

Perhaps he is more aware of her thoughts than she realises for he stops them suddenly in front of her house. She insisted on returning, despite his questioning gaze...

Where else would she go?

But it is D'Artagnan who stands in front of her now, battle scarred himself, all in his desperation to save her. His hands are gentle as they cup her cheeks and her eyes flutter closed at all the tenderness he can convey with a single touch. He rests his forehead to hers and she grips tight to his wrists, as they both release a long sigh and she imagines it's the rest of the world floating away into the night, leaving them with nothing but each other.

He breaks the silence.

_"Forgive me..."_

She starts to weep and does not think she will ever stop...


End file.
